


Please Don't Leave Me

by Okmeamithinknow



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 12:53:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8714713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Okmeamithinknow/pseuds/Okmeamithinknow
Summary: Cassian goes away on what's supposed to be a simple training mission, leaving behind his pregnant mate behind.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've been neglecting my other stories in favor of this one for two-three weeks, but I couldn't get this story out of my head until I wrote it down.

It’s supposed to be a training exercise.

A _simple_ training exercise; one he’s done a thousand times before they met, and hundreds more in the five decades they’ve been mated and married. Take the newest group of cocksure and arrogant novices who think they’re ready for the Blood Rite out into the wilderness. Hound them for a few days when they can’t use their magic, or their wings, and show them how woefully ill equipped they actually are.

They are only supposed to be gone a week. A week, two tops if the weather holds, or one of the Illyrian novices was feeling particularly stubborn. Because heaven forbid the little baby General Commander of the Night Court’s armies sleep out in the cold for longer than necessary.

And he promised, _promised_ , he’d be in touch, through their bond, or Cauldron boil him if it came down to the worst case scenario Rhys'. 

No more than two weeks so that he would be back in time to visit Elain in the Spring Court. Their last trip before the baby’s born. Before his stupid Fae male instincts kick in and she spends the last month of pregnancy locked in their townhouse to keep him from making a total ass of himself trying to protect her and their unborn child.

So Nesta doesn’t bat an eye, isn’t worried when they leave. She has plans with Feyre to go shopping down across the Sidra that day, so she doesn’t even see them off at the Illyrian war camp. Just a kiss on the cheek in the foyer of their home, one that turns into a long lingering kiss that Azriel has to interrupt with an awkward clearing of his throat. The depth of Cassian’s smirk rivals that of Nesta’s flush, and she has to grab his arm to keep him from giving his brother in arms a snarky reply. He gives her kiss to the forehead, and one to the swell of her stomach. Then with a cheeky grin and a flippant comment staring at his ass as he leaves, spreads his wings and takes off into the skies of Velaris. She makes a crude gesture at his retreating form, and from the trickle of mirth she feels down the bond he knows she’s making it.

And Nesta doesn’t worry. She honestly doesn’t. 

But then one week turns into two. Two weeks and she finds herself pounding on the front of Rhys and Feyre’s townhouse in the middle of the night, like a crazy woman. 

A very bedraggled Rhys assures her that regardless of whatever panic she might have felt through their bond, this isn’t the first time Cassian has taken his time with novices like this. That the panic is probably him worrying about returning late and the wrath that’s waiting for him at home. That they’re probably holed up in some cave waiting for the temperamental weather of the Illyrian Steppes to improve. Nesta tells him that she’ll show him temperamental, but exhaustion and worry and pregnancy take their toll on her before she can do anything more than voice her complaints. 

No, she’s not worried damn it! She just can’t go to sleep and misses her mate and the bed is cold without him, and before she can regain control of herself, she’s a sobbing mess of hormones and it’s entirely Cassian’s fault. Rhys ushers her upstairs to one of the spare bedrooms and vows to send a search party as soon as she lies down. He’s good on his word too. A search party goes out, but comes back empty handed. 

And before she knows it, it’s been three and a half weeks. 

Three and a half weeks, and the first wispy tendrils of dawn have just started to break over the horizon the morning that she’s set to demand that Rhys take her to the camp that they left from so she can use the bond to track him down and drag his sorry ass home, she wakes to a sharp pain in her lower abdomen. 

She dismisses it though. Her lower back has been aching for weeks, coincidentally the same amount of time her favorite Illyrian shaped pillow has been gone and it’s common to experience pains like these. Elain had them for weeks before giving birth to both of her children. 

So Nesta changes out of her night clothes and just finishes pulling on a pair of pants warm enough to withstand the biting cold of the Illyrian Steppes when a second stabbing pain ripples through her body. One that’s much too strong to be ignored.

This isn’t happening. There’s no way this is the first sign of labor. All she can think is how it’s too early; she still has another month before they needed to worry about this, and Cassian isn’t home. There’s so much left to buy, and the nursery is in no way prepared, and Mother above Cassian isn’t home, and Nesta won’t let it happen. So she bites back a groan and wills the pain to go away.

It works too or so she thinks. She finishes dressing and preparing for the day and is halfway down the stairs before she’s hit with another pain. It tears through muscles and even the blasted Cauldron is nothing compared to this. 

No.

No way is _this_ happening _now_. She is not in labor. She is _not_ in labor. 

But Feyre and Rhys have perfect timing it seems, because they find her at the bottom of the stairs as yet another contraction tears through her, one palm pressed to her stomach and the other clutching the rail. Nails dig into the wood, leaving indentations. Sweat clings to the fabric of her shirt and pants. Feyre takes one look at her oldest sister, the way she tries to hide it behind walls of fire and steel, and orders Rhys to fetch a healer. She shepherds Nesta back to the bedroom despite her protests that she’s perfectly fine and that she needs to find her missing mate.

There’s a flurry of activity coming from the main floor as Rhys reappears with both a healer and Mor. Feyre proves her salt as the High Lady of the Night Court as she dispatches the three of them with ease. Mor she sends to fetch Elain, because there’s no way that Feyre’s going to do this without some sort of buffer, and Elain is only a quick winnow away in the Spring Court. The healer scurries off to gather various supplies around the house. And Rhys she tells to put his powers to good use hunting down his wayward Army Commander, and so help her if he doesn’t come home with him, he might as well not come home at all. 

Nesta snorts a laugh at the last comment. A laugh that gets cut off as a contraction hits her. She breathes through the pain, willing for it to lessen and then sits down on the bed, steeling herself for the discomfort to come, and praying to the Mother and Cauldron both that Rhys finds her mate in time.

* * *

“He’s supposed to be back. He promised he’d be back. He _promised_ ,” Nesta whines through the pain of another contraction. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this… I had three more weeks and he’s supposed to be back.”

Hours later, and there’s been no progress. No progress anywhere. 

The sun has begun to sink in the sky, painting the sky in shades of reds and oranges, the heat of the day slowly seeping from the city, and all Nesta can do is wait. 

Feyre checks in with Rhys every hour or so to check on the search, but wherever Cassian and the novices are holed up is remote enough that the she can only get faint flickers of feeling down her mating bond, and even then all she gets are flashes of uncertainty and snow. Nesta hasn't felt even the weakest glimmer from Cassian down her bond since that night she’d stormed over to her sister’s townhouse.

Elain is the only thing keeping both Archeron sisters sane at the moment. It takes Elain a half hour to work her charm on Lucian and wrap things up at the Spring Court, but now refuses to leave her sister’s side. Elain brushes back a lock of sweaty hair away from where it’s clinging to Nesta’s forehead. A damp cloth makes it’s way to her forehead, cooling the burning skin.

“Rhys is looking for him,” Feyre reassures her from where she paces at the window, eyes fixed on the skyline, hoping to see familiar silhouettes appear. “Rhys is looking him and he won’t come back until he finds him.”

“I’m gonna kill him,” Nesta pants. The contractions aren’t far apart now, and if the healer is to be believed, it won’t be much longer. “Mother above… This hurts so bad…I’m gonna kill him and if he’s already dead, I’m gonna use that damn Cauldron and bring him back so I can kill him again.”

“I'll pin his wings myself,” Elain coos. The gentle voice and hand rubbing circles on Nesta’s back at odds with her words, and Nesta barks a watery chuckle as the pain subsides. 

* * *

Nesta’s been pushing for a half hour when there’s a clamor coming from the hall again. Feyre scrambles from her spot on the settee next to the window. A blanket of stars coats the night sky. Nesta thinks she hears an _‘Oh gods’_ from the hall but it could have been coming from her as she bears down, pushing with all of her might. The healer assures her that one more push is all she needs. One more push and she’s done. 

Feyre returns, blood flecking the front of her shirt. Blood that smells all too familiar, and Nesta’s eyes snap to her sister. A snarl rips from her, low and deep. But Nesta is distracted as another contraction tears through her and she gives one final push. Feyre stands frozen in the doorway, eyes wide as the healer stands, a squalling bundle in her arms. Nesta’s world narrows to that bundle.

“It’s a boy,” the healer says. She wipes off the ick, cleaning him up, and hands the squalling infant to his mother.

Nesta pulls him to the bare skin her chest, clutching him close to her. He’s tiny. So tiny that he fits neatly against her chest, but his size isn’t want catches her attention. It’s his wings. Wings jut from his back, small membranous wings. Tears stream down her face as Nesta runs a finger down one wing. It’s soft and the baby calms at the touch. A shock of dark hair, so much like Cassian’s, forces her to bite back a whimper. He sighs softly and nestles against her skin.

“I love you,” she whispers as another tear slips down her cheek. She’s waited so long for this moment. To have him in her arms, and everything would be perfect, but Cassian…

It’s then that she remembers Feyre. Her eyes shoot back to her sister. Feyre stands, still frozen in the doorway, speckles of blood, like paint, spattered across her front. Her cheeks are wet as she looks at her sister and newborn nephew, and there’s a strained look on her face.

“They found him.”

* * *

 

From what Rhys gathers from two traumatized novices, the night of Nesta’s panic driven hysterics at the townhouse, the night before they were set to head home, their camp was hit by some sort of mythic creature that makes the Bogge look harmless. By their accounts, it was huge, carnivorous, and should not have existed. Cassian told her about it once. When they discussed the traditions they’d wanted to pass down to the baby when they first learned Nesta was pregnant. But it was only a fae tale. A thing of nightmares. A story Illyrian mothers, Rhys’ mother, told their children to keep them in line. 

With their wings and magic bound, the novices could only work to distract the thing while their Commander went at it with everything he had. They battled for hours, at it systematically picked them off one by one in the dark of the night, until half their group had been decimated. Of the twenty Illyrian warriors Cassian took to the wilderness, only the two of them managed to escape with their lives. The creature’s death knell would haunt the males for the rest of their lives as Cassian delivered the final blow, driving a sword through one of it’s eyes. It made one last attempt to take out the remaining males, gaping jaws reaching for Cassian in particular. A single fang coated with poison embedded itself into Cassian’s chest, just below his heart.

The exhausted Army Commander passed out at that point, and the two remaining novices had dragged his barely breathing body to a nearby cave to hide out from any other predators that lurked in the dark. The fang in his chest was buried so deeply the novice’s worried that he’d die from blood loss if they tried to extract without a healer’s intervention.

So with no clue as to their location, and their magic bound with spells that would only be released once they’d arrived back at the war camp, they were forced to move slowly across the steppes, navigating using the position of the sun to guide them. They clung to the thin hope that they were headed in the right direction, hauling Cassian’s unconscious body with them. A week and a half of crossing the frozen steppes, hiding in caves and in trees, and they’d reached the nearest outpost. From there, they’d been able to find someone to winnow them straight to the camp Rhys and Azriel had been basing their search from.

* * *

A day goes by, and then another and Nesta’s well enough to throw everyone out of the townhouse. Feyre goes to protest, but Rhys chuckles at Nesta’s feral growl. The healer’s done all she could do, removing the fang from Cassian’s chest, and drawing out the poison that’s been pouring into his blood for the last week and a half. The hole in his chest has closed up, leaving a fresh pink scar, but he’s yet to wake. There’s nothing left to do but wait to see how much permanent damage the poison has caused. To see how much his Illyrian healing ability will fix. They won’t be able to tell until he wakes up. 

The implied ‘ _if’_ is what sends her into a rage, banishing the healers, and sending her well meaning friends and family packing. Not even Elain is spared from this primal wrath as she’s unceremoniously kicked out onto the streets of Velaris and the door literally slammed in her face. Nesta will be in touch with them _when_ Cassian wakes, and not any sooner. She’ll tend to him herself, and if she needs anything, Nesta knows that her unconventional family are only a winnow away.

She’s taken to sleeping on the settee, moving it over by the bed to leave enough room on the bed for Cassian to lay alone lest she accidentally injure him. Her rest is fitful at best. Intermittent catnaps with one ear open, waking to every shift and sound her boys make.

It’s the rustling of tiny wings that wakes her this time, the baby sighing in his sleep. Bleary eyed, she sits up, wrapping her blankets tightly around her shoulders and peers to the bassinet next her. The soft snuffling steals her breath for a moment, and she strokes a finger across his cheek and the baby nestles against it, still slumbering.

From the silky softness of his hair to the wrinkle in his nose the first time he sneezed, he looks so much like his father that it makes her heart ache. Ache so much more than she thought possible, and she tampers it down. She buries it so far down in her heart, fortifying herself against the feeling until a more familiar one roars to the forefront. 

Anger.

“You promised me you be back in time, you prick,” she spits, turning to her mate. Her husband. Her lover. The venom coating her voice is lacking its usual acidic sting though. It's more crestfallen and weary. She pulls her blanket closer around her, fingers clutching it at her neck. “You told me you’d be there, that you’d be with me, and that I wouldn’t have to do this alone. That you wouldn’t be like my father.”

Silence, and a tear trickles down her cheek as Nesta stares at his prone body. The only movement, only sound is his chest that barely moves beneath the blanket as he breathes. The crisp white linen stark against his skin, which is still much too pale.

He _had_ promised, promised in the dark of the night when she’d whispered her fears to him. 

Fear that he’d leave her, that he’d give up when things got too hard. While he hadn’t already left with everything she— and the Cauldron— had thrown at them. The war, and it’s eventual fallout. Her misgivings at the beginning of their relationship, from Tomas and her father. Her failings with Feyre. The King and the Cauldron and _dying_. Through all her flaws and foibles, he’d been patient to tear down the walls, flame-ensconced brick by brick. When the initial frenzy of accepting the mating bond finally subsided, she’d confessed all of them, daring him to prove himself worthy of her trust. He’d responded with tender kisses, wiping tears away, and swore that he would always be there. 

And he was. As far as Nesta was concerned, with the exception of minor things like leaving his weapons strewn about their townhouse, Cassian did his best to make sure his mate was healthy and happy. Their banter nothing more than playful. 

When they’d found out Nesta was pregnant, all those ragging insecurities came roaring back, and Nesta, awash in hormones, woke her mate up in the dead of night. Cassian pulled her close, listening intently as she vented, stroking gently down her back when he’d smelt the salty tang of her tears. 

And now…

“You have a son,” she says finally, wiping away the tears that have slipped through her guard. “ _We_ have a son, and he doesn’t have a name yet. You were supposed to help me pick one. I can’t do this without you. I don’t know the first thing about raising an Illyrian, a _son._ You were supposed to help me with this and  I…” 

Nesta reaches for the hand nearest her. His large palm dwarfs hers and she cups it against her cheek. It’s warm and comforting and familiar and feels like home. Pine and sky and the faint scent of his fighting leathers fills her senses and she closes her eyes at the overwhelming scent.

“I know I can be so mean when I want be. That I’m testy and mean and barely fit for polite company. I can cut you into pieces, when my heart is broken and somehow you find my snarky commentary funny. I'll never be Elaine with her soothing words and calm presence, or powerful like Feyre, or bubbly like Mor. I know I’ve said I don't need you, but I'm always going to come right back to you, please don't leave me. You can’t…” 

Nesta breaks off, unable to finish the sentence. Tears cascade down her cheeks and she lets them flow unchecked. 

“W—why,” comes a voice, and Nesta chokes on a sob. Blue-grey eyes fly to his face just in time to see his hazel eyes flutter open. Cassian coughs, throat dry from misuse and clears his throat. Nesta reaches to the table beside the bed and hands him a glass of water. She watches the bob of his throat with rapt attention as he gulps down the water.  “Why would I do something stupid like that?”

“Because you’re an idiot,” she says, and he reaches up to cup her cheek again. Nesta leans into his touch and smiles, a bright brilliant smile that she reserves only for him. He answers her with a slow sleepy smile of his own, and overwhelming relief consumes her as strokes his thumb across her skin. “But you’re my idiot.”

Nesta fights the urge to climb into bed with him, to throw herself at him like some silly girl, afraid that for all the bravado and swagger he’ll put forth, he’s still too injured. But he feels her hesitation down the bond, and with a groan, reaches out to pull her to him. Careful of his injury, she wraps herself around him, burying her face in the crook of his neck. Tremors wrack her body as she clings to him, weeping. Her walls of fire and ice and steel are gone and she’s nothing more than a melted mess of soggy hormonal ash. 

He pulls her close, enveloping the two of them in his wings. The pain in his chest is a dull thud, the stretching and pulling of freshly healed muscles that still need a couple days before he’s well enough to be back in the sparring ring and Cassian is grateful for his Fae blood and it’s healing abilities.

"I'm so sorry," he says. His voice is barely more than a hoarse whisper. ”So very sorry, sweetheart."

And she knows that he is. Feels it in the way he strokes her back and the way his breath stirs the hair atop her head as he breathes in her scent. Feels it in the way he pulls her closer, cocooning the two of them from the outside world. Feels it in the waves of sorrow that rush down their bond. And while part of her wants to be angry at him, to make him grovel and beg her forgiveness, she can't. 

 _Because he's home. He’s home. He's home. He’s home and alive and whole._  

She shudders against him and sucks in a deep breath, taking in his scent, again. Nesta looks up at him through her lashes, blushing slightly as her eyes meet his hazel ones, embarrassed by her outburst. But she figures the whole of the Night Court is lucky that it’s contained to their bedroom and not some fiery storm of temper like Feyre unleashed upon Hybern when he’d threatened Rhys’ life during the war.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes again, wiping a stray tear away with his thumb. Cassian leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead. 

“I was going to look for you,” she whispers.

“So you could drag my sorry ass home?” he says, and she nods. She laughs softly, barely more than a breath and Cassian buries his nose in her hair. 

“I was going to come find you, but someone decided he wanted to come a month early,” Nesta says.

She taps a section of the hardened ridge of his wing, and Cassian shudders at the touch, but moves the wing aside so she can sit up. His arms feel suddenly cold and empty as she scoots off the bed, but she doesn’t go far. There’s a rustling of tiny wings that Cassian knows too well as she lifts a bundle of blue fabric from the bassinet next to the bed. Carefully climbing back onto the bed, Nesta settles back into the nook she left and tucks her legs beneath her. Cassian wraps an arm around her, and doesn’t hesitate when she hands the baby to him.

“He’s beautiful,” Cassian murmurs in the hushed tones of a priestess calling on the name of the Mother. Unashamed tears stream down his cheeks as he gazes down on the boy. His boy. His son. The boy looks up at his father, tiny brow wrinkling at the new, unfamiliar scent of his father. Blue grey eyes meet hazel and Cassian’s vision blurs as a fresh wave of tears fill his eyes. 

“He looks like you,” she admits, running a finger down the baby’s cheek. “He has my eyes, but other than that, he looks just like you.”

“Are you calling me beautiful?” he asks, giving her what would be a sly grin save for the twin trails of tears trickling down his face. 

Nesta snorts at his ridiculousness, but then kisses his cheek with a hum. She’s never been this happy in her life. Her mate is home. Wounded and on the mend, but home and holding their son in his arms.

"He's so little." 

“He was a month early, Cas,” Nesta chides. It’s a tender scolding, she’s too weary from the lack of sleep and the bone melting relief that washed over her. “And both of Elain’s girls were took their time coming into this world too. He’ll grow, but for now yes, he’s little.”

Cassian trails a gentle finger down the length of the boy's arm, marveling at how soft and small and unequivocally perfect he is. Cassian stops at his hand, awed at the smooth skin of his palm and the baby shivers in his sleep. His delicate hand closes over Cassian’s finger, and when Cassian tries to pull it away, the baby latches on, gripping it tightly. Cassian chuckles and adds, “And strong.”

“Like his dad,” Nesta murmurs with a touch of irony in her voice.

“No,” Cassian says, tearing his eyes away from his son for the first time to meet Nesta’s gaze. “Like his mom.”

He leans over, kissing her temple. Then rests his head on top of hers. They both stare, transfixed at the baby as he sleeps. His little wings flutter with each breath.

“Kearney,” he says after a while, and when Nesta looks at him in question, he explains further, “it means little warrior.”

“Kearney,” she says, getting the feel of it on her tongue. “It suits him. With a family like ours, he’s going to have to be.”

Drawing a thicker blanket from the settee up around them, Nesta curls into a ball and nestles in closer to Cassian’s side. It’s not long until the warmth and the exhaustion catch up to her, and before she realizes it her eyes drift closed. The beating of his heart and whisper and sigh of shifting wings sing her a gentle lullaby. Cassian notices, watches the way his little family rests, at peace and relaxed. 

“Sweetheart,” Cassian whispers, sliding the baby higher on his chest to rest. Nesta hums, barely clinging to the last fragment of the waking world. “I really am sorry. Next time I will hover over you like a paranoid bat the whole pregnancy, ok?”

“Promise?” Nesta’s answering whisper is barely a sigh, so quiet Cassian almost misses it. Her fingers curl reflexively into his shirt.

“Promise.”


End file.
